


Divine

by Winsextr



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Fluff, Grantaire has bad dreams, M/M, but like not a huge amount, enjoltaireweek2016, exrweek2016, i tagged courf ferre and ep but theyre only really mentioned, there's a little angst at the beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 20:49:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7136543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winsextr/pseuds/Winsextr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire can't sleep and for the first time ever Courfeyrac's advice actually works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Divine

**Author's Note:**

> Another one for exr week! I decided to actually write some fluffier stuff. For once.

It’s been years since Grantaire’s gotten a decent night’s rest.

Hell, he can’t remember the last time he woke up feeling actually refreshed. He half suspects that that’s just a myth.

See, Grantaire has dreams. I mean, most people do, but Grantaire’s dreams have always been a little darker. A little more horrible.

“Just like me,” he used to joke to Eponine, until she smacked him upside the head and told him to shut the fuck up.

When he was little, he had night-terrors. He half suspected that one of the reasons his parents were so fed up with him was because of the sheer number of nights that he had woken them up with his screams. But maybe they had just always disliked him. He didn’t really care.

Now, he didn’t see mutated rats or murderous clowns or anything like that. Now, he saw his friends. He saw them lying in puddles of their own blood, saw them with horrible wounds or being buried six feet under.

Interestingly enough, he never saw himself. Maybe the fates just didn’t think he would hate seeing himself dead. They weren’t _wrong_ , but Grantaire was still offended.

“Why do you guys get to have all the fun? Why can’t I get in on the action?” Grantaire asked Eponine one night, when they were lying together on the couch. Ep was the only other one that he had told about the dreams. She had them too, though hers were of a different variety. She saw her parents, saw them beating her siblings or herself.

He saw all of his friends, but the most common one was Enjolras. Grantaire had witnessed his death in a thousand different ways. He’d seen Enjolras be stabbed through the heart by a bayonet, seen him left for dead on the side of a road, even seen him struck by a barrage of eight bullets.

Somehow, Grantaire always knew that their deaths were his fault.

After a few years of this, Grantaire had gotten used to it. Sure, he still woke up slick with his own sweat and tears, and murmuring “my fault,” like a mantra, and sure, it still took him a solid thirty minutes to stop shaking every night, but really, he was fine. He was fine.

Fine.

At least that’s what he told Eponine in the mornings. That’s what he told Bahorel when he was asked what was wrong. That’s what he whispered to himself when Enjolras planned a protest that Grantaire could easily see going wrong and ending in death and disaster.

Absolutely fine.

So, Grantaire slept terribly, drank himself into alcohol induced comas, dreaded his own bed and convinced himself that all was well.

Because what else was there for him to do?

One evening in June, Grantaire was particularly quiet at the meeting. Most nights, the dreams took pity on him and didn’t start until after he’d been asleep for a few hours, but this time it was merciless, and Grantaire had barely gotten an hour under his belt before he was having visions of Enjolras lying dead on the street.

So, he didn’t play cards, didn’t wax poetic with Jehan, didn’t even argue with Enjolras. He didn’t have the energy for it. He just sat in the corner with his head down, trying to block out the sounds of his friends possibly planning the cause of their own deaths.

When the meeting was over, Enjolras came over to his table. “Are you okay, Grantaire?” he asked, actually sounding concerned.

“Don’t you fret, my dear Apollo, I am perfectly fine,” Grantaire said, trying to process the fact that Enjolras might actually care about him. When Enjolras didn’t look convinced, Grantaire sighed. “Honestly Apollo, don’t worry. I’m just a bit tired. I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

“Well, I hope you feel better,” Enjolras said, sounding so forced that Grantaire had to stifle a laugh.

“Oh God, who’s making you to be nice to me?”

“What?” Enjolras asked, actually stepping backwards. “Grantaire, no one’s _forcing_ me.” Enjolras frowned. “I mean, Combeferre might have mentioned that it would be wise…”

Grantaire laughed hollowly. “Alright. See you at the next meeting Apollo.” He stood and started towards the door.

“Grantaire, wait!”

He kept walking.

Unfortunately for Grantaire’s livelihood, Enjolras cornered him after the next meeting.

“Okay, since Combeferre’s plan ended in flames, I’ve decided to move onto Courfeyrac’s method,” he began, and for the first time in his life, Grantaire thought that Enjolras seemed human.

“Oh God,” Grantaire said, trying not to sound nervous. “In my experience it is never a good idea to follow Courfeyrac’s advice.” But Enjolras is already talking.

“I like you. A lot.” He’s so red, Grantaire would make a joke about it if he wasn’t dying currently. “Like. I _like_ like you.”

“Does Courfeyrac’s method include returning to first grade?” Grantaire murmurs, ducking his head to hide his smile.

Enjolras keeps going, scratching the back of his neck. “So. Would you, Grantaire, like to, I don’t know, date me?”

Grantaire realizes that he’s staring. “Why?”

Enjolras’s eyebrows knit together. “I’m… sorry?”

“Why on earth would someone like you want to date someone like me?”

Enjolras glances around, as if he’s searching for any kind of help. “I thought I just made that clear? I’ve been a little bit in love with you since like the third time you took apart my argument.”

Grantaire must have died and gone to heaven, because that’s the only possible explanation. Of course, that raises a number of questions. How did he die? Why is that the only part of his life he doesn’t remember? How the fuck did he get into heaven?

“Okay,” he whispers.

“Okay?” Enjolras asks, looking terrified. “Grantaire, you’re the first person I’ve been in love with, because apparently France doesn’t count. And you just say ‘okay’?”

Grantaire was still processing this. “Okay, I would love to date you.” He’s starting to grin. “For the record, I’ve been in love with you since the second I stepped into the café.”

 

A week later, Grantaire wakes up in Enjolras’s arms, the hazy morning sun warming the bed.

“How was your rest?” Enjolras asks, kissing him lazily.

Grantaire smiles. “It was divine.”

And he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank's for reading! All comments are greatly appreciated.  
> Find me on tumblr at gay-french-and-dead


End file.
